Macaque Attack!

by Gareth L. Powell

  Before him, the bridge looked empty and wide. If he tried to run across, he’d be plainly visible to anybody on either bank, and exposed to whatever weaponry they cared to turn in his direction.

  But did he have to go over the bridge? Seized by a sudden idea, he ran on all fours, scampering to the edge of the carriageway and down a slippery grass slope to the towpath running along the riverbank. From underneath, the bridge was made up of six long steel I-beam girders lying side by side, with the road running atop them.

  Behind him, in the direction from which he’d come, he heard the thud-thud-thud of military helicopters.

  Damn. Another moment, and he’d have been caught in the open. Don’t these guys ever stop?

  As the sounds of pursuit grew louder, he jumped up and heaved himself into the space between two of the girders. The gap was about a metre wide. From here, he’d only be visible to somebody looking up from directly beneath. With his hands and feet braced against the girders’ lower flanges, and his tail whipping around to keep him balanced, he could cross the bridge on all fours without being seen by the choppers or, when he got out over the water, anyone on the bank or roadway. The collapsed middle section might prove tricky, but he’d deal with that when he reached it. Right now, his priority was to get across the river without being caught, and without falling in.

  Muttering obscenities to himself, he started crawling.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  VAST AND COOL

  AS IF OPENING an old fashioned scroll, Amy Llewellyn unrolled a flexible display screen and placed it on the desk before Merovech, weighing down its corners with coffee mugs and books.

  “She’s waiting for you.”

  Merovech exhaled. He had a hollow, churning feeling in his stomach.

  “Will this be live?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve repurposed one of the largest dishes at Goonhilly. She wants to speak to you, and you alone.” She tapped a spot at the side of the flat screen, turning on the power.

  “Of course she does.”

  “But that doesn’t mean other people won’t be listening. Most of the news networks will be casting this live.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “All you have to do is touch this button here to connect, and touch it again to disconnect.” She leant over him, pointing to the appropriate control, and he could smell the shampoo in her hair: a hint of mint and berries.

  “This one?”

  “Exactly.” She straightened up and tugged down the hem of her silk blouse. “But don’t forget, there’ll be a delay on the signal.”

  “What sort of delay?”

  “With Mars at the distance it is from Earth, it’ll take your signal about six minutes to reach her, and another six minutes until you receive her reply.”

  “Twelve minutes?”

  “I’m afraid it will make for rather a slow conversation.” She reached into her pocket and produced a large, silver-plated stopwatch. “This will help you keep track.”

  Merovech took it from her and put it on the desk in front of him. His hands felt jittery.

  “Okay,” he said. “I think I can manage this by myself.”

  Amy raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

  “No.” He waved her away. “No, thank you. I want to do this by myself.”

  “But, sir.”

  “No, really. It’s better this way.” He would be self-conscious enough just knowing the world’s media were eavesdropping. He didn’t think he could bear to have anybody else in with him, watching and listening and trying not to meet his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

  She put her hands on her hips.

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  She tugged at the cuffs of her blouse. “Then I’ll be right outside. Just call me if you need me.”

  Merovech rose to his feet.

  “I will,” he said. “Thank you.”

  She went to the door. He listened to her heels clack on the oak floorboards. When she’d gone, he considered his reflection in the ornate, silver-framed mirror that hung on the wall above the fireplace. As he was in mourning, he’d chosen to wear a black shirt and tie with a charcoal-grey jacket. It was the same suit he’d worn to his father’s funeral, three years ago. But, of course, the previous king hadn’t been his real father—and, although she’d carried him in her womb, his mother hadn’t really been his mother, either. He was a clone, cultured from one of her cells and turned male through the use of prenatal hormone injections—an artificial creature grown with the sole purpose of furthering his mother’s dynastic ambitions. Now that Julie was dead, only three people in the world knew the truth, and two of them—Victoria Valois and Ack-Ack Macaque—were missing, presumed lost.

  He clenched his fists and swallowed. The whole world would be listening to his conversation—at least, those agencies, governments and broadcasters with the equipment and ability to intercept signals sent to and from Mars. Would the Duchess blurt the truth? Would she accidentally or deliberately expose him as a fraud? The disclosure would be a disaster. It would undo his attempts to unite and hold together his Commonwealth in the aftermath of both the Duchess’s attempted coup and the Gestalt invasion. The last thing his people needed right now was another crisis; and yet, in a deep and selfish corner of his heart, he knew the revelation—despite the accompanying scandal and disgrace—would come as something of a relief. For the first time in his life, he wouldn’t be playing a part; he would have responsibility for nothing but himself.

  It was all he’d ever craved: the simple freedom to be himself. But suppose he ended up in jail, or was cast out as an exile, with the media hounding his every move? From childhood, he’d been trained and shaped for leadership and, for the past three years, he’d worked hard to keep the United Kingdoms together in the face of attack and economic turbulence. To have his efforts go to waste… Well, it was more than he would be able to bear.

  His thoughts turned to Julie. She had respected but never really understood his sense of duty. What would she say now? From somewhere, she’d found the courage to confront her abusive father. Surely, she’d expect the same courage from him.

  With a dry mouth, he turned to the desk and held his finger over the button.

  “Okay.” He took a long breath. “Let’s get this over with.”

  And let the cards fall where they may.

  THE FACE THAT appeared on the screen before him bore a passing resemblance to his mother, the Duchess, but its features held the smooth, passive lines of a waxwork. Behind it, Merovech could see the rusty pink glow of a Martian sunrise.

  “I’m here,” he said, and reached for the stopwatch.

  Twelve minutes. The lower drawer of his desk held the bottle of 15-year-old single malt that he’d been enjoying earlier, and a clean set of crystal tumblers. He picked one and sloshed in a generous measure, and then sat back to await his mother’s reply. When it came, he saw her eyes narrow and her posture harden. The ghost of a smile crept across her lips. A faint breeze disturbed her synthetic hair.

  “I see you survived.”

  Merovech felt his jaw clench.

  No thanks to you.

  On the screen, the Duchess raised a hand to indicate the boulder-strewn Martian plateau behind her. Tall, spindly figures bestrode the cratered surface, picking their way between the rocks. Some carried tools, others weapons. They cast long, black shadows across the regolith.

  “So have we.”

  “What do you want, mother?” Merovech spoke without thinking, and then sighed and restarted the stopwatch. He got up from his chair and walked over to the window, and looked out at the cranes and scaffolding of a city in the process of reconstructing itself.

  If she’d had her way, this would all be radioactive ash.

  Twelve minutes crawled past.

  “Straight to the point, I see.” Was that a hint of pride in her voice? Merovech returned to his seat.

  “I am calling with a propositi
on,” the cyborg continued. “I am aware of your recent brush with the Gestalt, and I’m here to offer my protection.”

  “Your what?”

  “You see,” she continued, as yet unaware of his interruption, “I have an army of my own here. A thousand cyborgs with human minds. We are stronger, faster and more intelligent than you could ever be. Our technology is years ahead of yours, and we have all the resources of this red planet. Just think what we can achieve.”

  Merovech clunked his tumbler onto the desk.

  “Get to the point,” he muttered.

  Two hundred and twenty million kilometres away, the Duchess smiled.

  “I know the world listens to our conversation,” she said. “And I’m here to make you this offer. Any country that pledges us their fealty and support will receive in return our protection. There are an infinite number of parallel worlds out there. Who knows when the next invasion may come?”

  She paused expectantly. Merovech chewed his lower lip.

  “You tried to trigger a nuclear war,” he said. “And now you expect us to believe you have our best interests at heart?” He sat back and shook his head. “I don’t buy it. I won’t believe it.”

  A dozen minutes later, the Duchess laughed.

  “What you believe scarcely matters, my son. The simple fact is, the Earth is under threat and only we can save it.”

  “Save it by destroying it, you mean? By bending it to your will?”

  “Spin it however you like, Merovech, but know this: Your world is being watched by intelligences greater than your own, intelligences vast and cool and deeply sympathetic. Spurn us at your peril.”

  She fell silent. Merovech cleared his throat.

  “Is that a threat, mother?”

  Twelve minutes later, the Duchess narrowed her eyes. “Every carrot has a stick, my son. When we return to Earth—and return we shall—the weapons we will have built to defend our supporters will be turned against those who have denied us.” Her eyes flicked up and to the right, as if consulting a display he couldn’t see. “You, and all the nations of the Earth, have one hour to decide. Our forces grow by the minute. Within days, we’ll have weapons capable of reaching the Earth. Join us now, or suffer the consequences.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CARBON FIBRE BONES

  IN THE COLD grey light of a damp false dawn, Victoria stood at the edge of the village, her thin frame wrapped in an old army greatcoat like one of the ones the Commodore used to wear in the winter. Leaves blew around her feet, which were wrapped in rags. Her clothes were drab and tattered and she’d left her head bare to the glowering sky. Only a torn and grimy length of cloth, wrapped around her forehead and tied at the back, hid the input jacks set into her temple. Shambling from their ruined houses, the villagers ignored her. She looked like one of them. Moving like emaciated shadows, their feet dragged through the mud and rubble and their eyes remained lowered and hopeless. As they formed up into ranks at the edge of the main road, she shouldered her way in among them, keeping her head down, hoping her disguise would be enough to fool the guards at the laboratory.

  In the corner of her eye, she saw Paul’s image. He hung above the cracked and weed-pocked tarmac of the road like a spectre, invisible to everyone except her.

  “I still say this is a bad idea,” he muttered. Victoria said nothing. She hadn’t wanted to leave him behind, so she’d uploaded him into her neural gelware, as she had three years ago after first activating him. Now, he was a ghost overlaid across her vision. She nestled her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat, squeezing them for warmth. Around her, the villagers huddled into themselves. Unkempt, stale and unwashed, they stank. None of them spoke; they simply stood there, swaying slightly, as they waited for the sun to rise and the truck to appear.

  Paul looked around at them.

  “These people are starving,” he said. “And covered in sores. And I don’t like the way some of them are missing clumps of hair.”

  Victoria sidled to the edge of the group.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a surgeon, not a general practitioner.”

  “If you had to guess.”

  “Radiation poisoning, maybe.”

  “Merde. You really think so?”

  “I could be wrong.” He considered the drab sky and shivered. “But I wouldn’t recommend staying here a moment longer than absolutely necessary.”

  Victoria swallowed. Her mouth felt suddenly dry.

  “Oui, d’accord.”

  Despite his pessimism, she was glad to have him along for the ride. In this drab and forlorn landscape, it felt good to have a friendly face to offer moral support.

  A fat drop of rain fell onto the road, followed by another, and another. From the left came the grunt and rumble of an engine. Belching smoke, the truck came around the corner at the end of the village. It was an eight-wheeled military model painted in autumnal urban camouflage. With a squeak of brakes and a hiss of hydraulics, it pulled to a halt in front of the villagers. They clambered up to join the other workers already huddled on the benches inside. Victoria hauled herself up behind them, and sat on the bench with her back against the canvas wall. Someone banged the side and the vehicle lurched forward, throwing everyone against each other. Then they were under way and, through the flap at the back, she could see the unrepaired road spooling away behind them.

  In a field beyond the village, a fairground lay rusting.

  “What happened here?” she whispered.

  Paul shrugged. “Something bad.” He jerked a thumb at the truck’s other occupants. “Why don’t you ask them?”

  Victoria glanced sideways, and gave a tight little shake of her head. She didn’t want to do anything that would make her stand out as being different, or not from around these parts. To do so would be to risk getting turned in for a reward. Instead, she turned up her collar and hunkered lower on her seat. The truck bumped and rattled along the road, jolting her spine.

  Eventually, after a seeming eternity of discomfort, they came to a wire fence and a pair of anonymous-looking cyborg guards, who waved them through with scarcely a glance. Through the rear flap, Victoria saw the barrier and its coils of barbed wire receding behind them.

  No turning back now.

  They were in the grounds of the laboratory. If Célestine were anywhere, she’d be here, overseeing the activities of Nguyen’s cyborg master race. All Victoria had to do was find her, and then get her to lead her to the monkey. Victoria’s fingers curled around the plastic casing of the tracking device in her pocket. Once she got within a few hundred metres of Ack-Ack Macaque, she’d be able to locate him via the microchip she’d hired a vet to implant under his skin.

  That’s if he’s still alive.

  The truck pulled up in front of a pre-fab industrial unit, and the workers clambered out. Keeping amongst them, Victoria allowed them to lead her to a large canvas marquee, which had been erected at the side of the building, and which housed a couple of rickety trestle tables, from behind which dispirited-looking men and women dispensed cups of water and bowls of thin porridge. Accepting a bowl and a tin mug, Victoria stood on the edge of the group. The other workers ate and drank with listless, automatic movements. They showed no relish or urgency in the slaking of their hunger. They were like machines taking on fuel. Holding the plastic bowl to her chin, Victoria sniffed.

  “That looks tasty,” Paul said.

  “It smells like wallpaper paste.”

  “You’re not going to eat it, then?”

  “Shut up.”

  The last thing she’d eaten had been a simple egg-white omelette, some hours before, in the commissary of the Sun Wukong. Now, the giant airship lay somewhere out in the Bay of Biscay, out of sight of land, its vast bulk floating half a dozen metres above the water—hopefully beyond the range of any radars Nguyen’s troops might bring to bear, and hidden from the few civilian vessels brave or foolhardy enough to set forth upon the dead, polluted sea.


  She swilled the gloopy muck around, and then tipped it into some weeds growing up against the side of the building.

  “How did I get here?’

  Paul looked confused.

  “The truck…?”

  She shook her head and sighed. “I mean, how did I get here.” She looked around at the low, functional buildings, the miserable workers, and the dark, sullen sky. How had she made the progression from that apartment in Paris, from a promising career in journalism, to this post-apocalyptic wasteland? She thought of her other self, lying dead in that apartment, and almost envied her.

  “Maybe I should have died in the crash,” she murmured, thinking back to her accident in the South Atlantic. Everything that had happened, all the weirdness, had come about as a direct result of that crash. From the moment, four years ago, when she stepped onto the chopper and strapped into the seat next to the then-teenage Prince of Wales, her course had been fixed, her life changed. She’d climbed aboard as an up-and-coming reporter, and then woken four weeks later as a technological freak—a woman kept alive by the artificial neurons that now did most of her thinking.

  And here she was on a parallel timeline, in a possibly radioactive dystopia, searching for her best friend—a rude, violent, ungrateful monkey, who smelled like a wet dog and drank like a fish—with only the electronic projection of her dead husband for company.

  Why couldn’t they have just let her drown?

  She pulled her coat tight, and muttered curses under her breath. After a few minutes, the doors to the laboratory opened, and she followed the thin, shivering villagers to a production line, where industrial robots assembled artificial cyborg bodies in showers of welding sparks, and humans simply fetched and carried, swept and sorted. For an hour, she tried to blend in but had no idea what she was supposed to be doing and kept getting in the way. The sight of the arms and legs that lay, awaiting attachment, in hoppers beside the conveyor belts unnerved and sickened her. Their carbon fibre bones had already been partially covered in cultured skin, giving them the look of severed human limbs. It made her feel like a worker in a death camp. Especially as she knew that, somewhere nearby, real arms and legs were being carved off and discarded as brains and nervous systems were stripped from frail flesh-and-blood bodies and implanted into waiting cyborg shells.